


For Once, For Now, For Always

by MB234



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, General evilness, Hydra, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:14:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6796267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MB234/pseuds/MB234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Occurs soon after the events of Captain America: Civil War</p><p>Reader is a recently escaped HYDRA prisoner who is inexplicably pulled to her Winter Soldier; she's just broken enough to fit into the scattered shards of Bucky's life, but what complications does her sudden arrival spell for The Winter Soldier and his allies?</p><p>Violence throughout the chapter and possible smut later. May become a multiple part story, please comment if you like! Bucky/Reader smut</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You ran, your muscles burning and aching fiercely as you sprinted headlong into the dense Wakandan jungle, steadfastly ignoring the flora and fauna that stingingly slapped at the exposed skin of your lean calves and arms, the pain the plants caused a mere shadow of the agony that would befall you if your captors got ahold of you again. HYDRA wasn’t notorious for its mercy. You’d escaped from their clutches just days ago and had been fleeing ever since. Your tattered prison clothes barely clung to your weary body, your battered form was racked constantly by nausea and exhaustion. You trembled as sweat dripped down your back and beaded on your forehead; and yet your stride never slowed, your stamina strengthened by years of experimentation and torture. After your felicitous escape you had clumsily ripped at the tracker implanted in your inner thigh, desperately trying to disable it so that you weren’t followed. It had been a bloody, painful affair, and you weren’t even totally sure you’d succeeded, but your eagerness for escape and practiced surgical precision had aided your frenzied efforts.

 

You ran until your lungs burned and your breaths were ripped raggedly from your throat, but you paid the fickle sensations no mind. In fact, nothing mattered to you but _him._ You could feel him close to you, closer than you had in years, so damned near that you wanted to weep with relief. His presence whispered in your mind, fluttering urgently through your consciousness and teasing you with unbearably sweet surges of blessed relief.

 

While you had been a prisoner of HYDRA he’d always served as an unfailing source of solace for you, and you had suspected that you were the same for him. Well you’d hoped; you could do scarcely more than wish. It was hard to tell even as you watched him raptly through the bars of your Siberian prison cell, his intense stormy eyes locked on yours as he anxiously awaited his impending torture, or as you gently unstrapped his rickety form from that infernal chair after his mind had been toyed with and his gaze was glossy with confusion, tarnished by the torturous instruments that HYDRA had mercilessly employed on him.

 

During World War II you’d been a SHIELD agent with advanced medical training and you’d made the mistake of trusting the wrong people with classified espionage intel that you’d covertly collected from various patients. HYDRA’s agents had captured you because of your medical expertise and advanced surgical technique. Their capture of you hadn’t been smooth by any definition of the word, and in your efforts against them you’d suffered a few severe injuries, making the HYDRA agents that took you use some of the technology that would later go into his bionic arm to repair the damages done. After you’d recovered they’d forced you to attend to their winter soldiers, providing medical aid, and on occasion, euthanasia. If you proved reluctant to comply they wouldn’t hesitate to test their mock super soldier serums on you, forcing the wicked sludge into your veins and watching gleefully as you writhed in agony on the dank floor of your cell.

 

Little did they know that their cruel experiments had made you strong, had slowed your aging and endowed you with powers you couldn’t even imagine and hadn’t fully discovered yet. You’d kept your new found abilities as secret from them as you could, waiting until just the right moment to break out of their control, which apparently had been 48 hours ago. To say that the HYDRA agents that had been transferring you to a new facility had been surprised at your powers was a devastating understatement.

 

You’d shamelessly bashed in the skulls of any who’d gotten in your way and had started running. You hadn’t stopped or even slowed, your feet guided by a potent mixture of instinct, skill and pure longing, further spurned by the knowledge that this might very well be your last chance at escape. During your internment with HYRDA you’d learned many languages, chief among them being Russian, and in the days preceding your escape you’d heard small whispers of _him._ Your brave soldier. Your only confidant in the darkest hours of your life.  You latched onto them like a dying man to the elixir of life, desperation and desire fueling your hurried plans of escape. Of reconciliation with him.

 

In hindsight you’d shared only fleeting moments with each other, just the barest glimpses of achingly sweet human contact, but for your soldier clarity was a rare prize to be treasured, protected. You didn’t know if he ever thought of you, if he even remembered you, but he’d certainly been the one that _you_ had thought of as you paced for long hours in your cell, desperately clasping onto any possible distraction before the HYDRA agents had come for you again. And again. And again. Always with their sharp smiles and their cruel, capricious pain.

 

You weren’t sure why they had kept you alive for all these years, but now, as your bare feet pounded against the damp earth and the rich, cloying scents of the jungle erupted around all you, you were immensely glad that they had. You’d never felt more alive, and despite the fact that you were a fugitive, an escaped prisoner and a woman thrown harshly out of time, you felt an undeniable thrill of pure joy flood your veins, fueling your muscles to pump harder, your legs to move faster, to carry you more quickly to the only person you trusted in the entire world.

 

To your Winter Soldier.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve stared out into the balmy African night, his brow furrowed as he contemplated his markedly complicated current predicament. He had yet to face Stark, or the consequences of his actions, namely breaking his friends out of prison, and honestly, hiding just wasn’t in his nature. It went against everything in him to stay here, under T’Challa’s admittedly generous hospitality and protection, safe from the repercussions of the recent past. He felt as though he was on the edge of a precipice, dangling precariously above a yawning abyss by a mere thread. Steve was no stranger to stressful situations, but this one was personal. In this matter his conscience was crystal clear, his intended course of action unflinching. The only problem was that he seemed to be among a select few who saw it the same. He sighed, running a hand through his hair and pinching the bridge of his nose. The action did virtually nothing for his stress headache, bit it was mildly comforting nonetheless. It was moments like this that made Steve Rogers almost want a buzz.

 

At that moment a disturbance near the tree line caught Steve’s attention, his enhanced senses going on alert in the space of a heartbeat. He stood up straighter, uncrossing his arms and shifting his weight, preparing to attack if need be. To his immense surprise, the battered, stumbling form of a small woman broke through the dense trees, your sure steps slowing just enough so that you could leap over thirty feet up to land rather gracefully on the balcony Steve was currently standing on. Your intense, imploring gaze was focused and sharp as it scanned your surroundings and you took in the sprawling mansion that stretched before you. After a moment of awed study your gaze fell on Steve and he just barely suppressed a shudder. You were a woman on a mission, and somehow he could tell that you would not hesitate to try and take him down if you deemed him a threat. That would be regrettable; he really didn’t want to hurt a woman, especially not one as seemingly fragile as you.

 

You took one measured step towards him and Steve tensed, watchful. For the first time your body wavered and you leaned onto the railing for support, closing your eyes as some unpleasant sensation roiled over you. Stunned, Steve studied the torn thread of your clothes, the lank fall of your comely hair and the fierce, dated beauty of your features. His curiosity only deepened when you stumbled closer and held out a small shaking hand to him, your fingers reaching and your palm flexing towards him.

 

“My soldier,” your husky voice cut the still night air, your perplexing words echoing through Steve’s mind as your eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the corners of your mouth upturning into a heartbreaking smile, “My winter soldier, my Bucky,” Your voice was a mere whisper, though your words carried enough strength to dumbfound Steve, giving him almost no time to catch you as you passed out, exhausted and shaking in his arms.

 

He stood stunned, his headache effectively forgotten, for long moments before he drew in an immense breath to call for T’Challa. They had a new situation on their already burdened hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky was drifting, lost in a world where he could almost tell the difference between his vivid, technicolor dreams and the real, grating memories that constantly weighed heavily on his burdened mind. He marked time by how many of those rose hued dreams flitted by; and by how many dark, twisted memories would play soon after. Some would assume that cryo-sleep was just an empty expanse of dreamless slumber, but Bucky knew that wasn’t the case. It was almost as if he remembered more while he slept than while he was awake. Memories from his life pervaded every second of his consciousness, a steady stream of scenes that he both welcomed and feared, but was helpless to influence. That seemed to be a recurring theme of his long life; helplessness. He was finding that he was getting so damned sick of it.

 

A memory, real and stark, suddenly played in his mind; a memory he recognized and found himself repeatedly longing for. A memory of _you_.

 

_He felt your bright, glinting eyes fixed on him, boring into his back as he was once again led to that damned chair for another round of conditioning. HYRDA had a mission for him; that was why they’d woken him from cryo-sleep today. He knew what awaited him in that chair, he knew the lashing pain that would follow, and though every fiber of his being rebelled, the truth was that he was just too disoriented to fight back. It was always like this after he regained consciousness; always there was the headache, the slight nausea, that horrible feeling of being thrust harshly out of time. And always there was the pain._

 

_The HYDRA agents in this Siberian base seemed to revel in causing him pain, in watching his muscles go rigid as agony gnawed at him and listening as his voice became husky from his frenzied screams. And yet beneath the horrible, bloody fabric of his existence there was the smallest thread of gold, the tiniest measure of comfort amidst his tedium. You._

 

_Somehow, inexplicably, incredibly, the fact that it would be your small, gentle hands that would be there to steady his reeling body, your deft fingers that would unstrap him from the chair, freeing him from his torture, that it would be your low, thrumming voice in his ear telling him that he’d be alright, that the pain was done now, helped to calm him in ways he couldn’t describe._

 

_He didn’t even know your name and yet he’d memorized the graceful curve of your neck, the striking, feminine beauty of your features, the kind gleam in your gentle eyes. You were a haven of light in this cold, dark place; a sanctum of warmth and softness. Where he was usually met with only harsh biting words and grizzly missions, in your presence he found something more precious than the sweet relief of unconsciousness. With you he found kindness. He found a kindred soul. He found peace._

 

_He’d almost forgotten what that felt like, but when you were near, he remembered. He wanted. He ached._

 

_Your cell was conveniently placed directly in front of the chair that he was currently being strapped into and to distract himself he greedily searched the dark shadows playing before him for just the barest glimpse of your face. Mercifully, he saw you shift among the darkness, moving to the front of your cell. A strange, intense kind of relief twisted in his chest when he saw your slim fingers curl around the grimy bars, your knuckles going white from the force of your grip. It seemed to pain you when you saw him being tortured. He didn’t like that; you shouldn’t hurt. Not when it could be prevented._

 

_Sometimes he almost thought he saw tears glinting in the corners of your pretty eyes, or glimpsed your full lips parting as you drew in a shaky breath while you watched him writhe in pain. But maybe he was just imagining it; he was having a hard time differentiating between what was real and what wasn’t. His waking moments were becoming hazier, less clear, and he could admit to himself that it made him afraid._

 

_Usually he was so groggy from being woken from cryo-sleep that he was compliant as the HYDRA agents strapped him in, but this time, spurned by your beautiful tear-streaked face, he fought back. The reinforced metal cuffs pricked at the skin of his right wrist, snagging the sensitive flesh there. Suddenly, that small, painful sensation made him angry; furious even. He was sick of all the prodding and poking, of all of the abuse and pain. The metal fingers of his left arm curled around the throat nearest to him, crushing the windpipe beneath his grasp with ease. The reaction in the agents around him was immediate and fierce._

 

_Uncountable sets of strong arms pressed down on him, overwhelming him with their breadth and pure calculated brawn. He was shoved back into the seat within seconds, his strength overcome, his rage fueled muscles barely controlled. Initially he was surprised by the fervor of their counter attack, but in hindsight he supposed that HYDRA would have been prepared enough to put preventative measures against him in place, just in case. It was a smart move; he couldn’t deny them that, though as he was effectively subdued, both of his arms strapped once more to the hard metal chair beneath him, his rebellious heart still beat wildly in his chest in fervent insubordination._

 

_His pulse roared fiercely in his ears, his eyes locked with yours as he desperately tried to escape, railing against his bonds savagely. He watched tears streak down your ashen cheeks, watched sympathy and anger fill your luminous eyes, the sight making his heart twist strangely in his chest as he still attempted to reach your padlocked cell so that you could run into the frigid night with him. Some small part of him realized that he was still locked in that infernal chair, awaiting the inevitable agony that always followed, but his strong mind allowed one brief fantasy of flight. He pictured your small, slim fingers entwined with his as he led you to the door of the bunker, him fearlessly protecting you against any that dared to confront you. He saw your proud expression as he escorted you to safety, shielding your vulnerable body with his large, strong one, confidence that he could keep you safe soaring in his chest._

 

_His lips had just barely upturned in the smallest of smiles when the pain came._

 

* * *

 

 

_They’re fighting…about me._

 

You thought with much chagrin as you painstakingly attempted to comb the numerous, gnarly tangles out of your long, drying hair, listening with mild sheepishness as Steve and T’Challa discussed your sudden presence in his stately home. You’d just emerged from a much needed, luxurious, possibly too-long shower in T’Challa’s huge state of the art bathroom. Everything in this sprawling palace was clean, obviously moneyed and steeped in a luxury that you were sorely unaccustomed to. You’d learned the owner of this mansion’s name soon after you’d woken from a few hours of much needed sleep, feeling rested but no less anxious. The man you’d encountered on the balcony was named Steve, and he’d been seated by your side when you’d snapped awake, your pulse pounding wildly in your ears as you’d gasped in ragged breaths and tensed your protesting muscles in preparation to run once more.

 

Steve, with his kind, sparkling blue eyes and his low, comforting voice, had explained where you were and whose hospitality you were currently benefiting from. In turn you’d told him, in general, less gruesome terms, what you had been through and who you were running from. His handsome face had paled when you mentioned that different versions of the super soldier serum had been tested on you, and you were quick to reassure him that you in no way blamed him. To the best of your abilities you’d answered the questions he’d posed to you, futilely trying to fill in the gaps in your knowledge. The world had changed immensely since you’d last been a thriving member of society, and about some changes you were markedly glad.

 

For example, judging by the scanty, plunging neckline of the white tank top and the low ride of the tight matching shorts that you’d been given to wear after your shower, it seemed that most, if not all, of the 1940s modesty that your adulthood had been steeped in had been thrown out the window in more recent times. Not that that particularly bothered you, before HYDRA you’d always reveled in your femininity, in your womanhood;  taking lovers, though admittedly fewer than you would have if there had been sufficient, easily accessible birth control in your time, enjoying long nights of rambunctious dancing and sometimes indulging in Bacchanalian drinking. Not that it mattered anymore; HYDRA had stolen all of that from you too, along with your bodily autonomy, years of your life and your freedom.

 

You shook yourself hard at that dark thought, pushing aside the pain of the past in exchange for the promises of the future. _He_ was here, you could tell, you could feel him. You weren’t quite sure exactly how or why you could perceive his presence so keenly; it was as if he was a bright spot in the back of your mind, a constant presence that warmed you in your coldest hours. You’d always mused that it had something to do with the serum that had been used on you; perhaps there was an agent in it that made you more sensitive to other recipients of the formula. After all, every time you’d had to euthanize a failed winter soldier it’d torn painfully at you, biting deep into your very being; you’d felt the breath leave their body as acutely as if you’d been punched in the gut; you’d gently closed their eyes and smoothed their wrinkled brows with shaking fingers.

 

With an aggravated huff, suddenly incredibly angry and fed up with the melancholy memories of the past that insisted on plaguing you, you finally gave up on your unruly mane and left it to snap haphazardly down your back as you began to don the clothes folded neatly beside the marble sink. The delicate, airy pieces fit you beautifully, as if they’d been tailored for your size and shape, conforming to your body and accentuating your curves. It had been so long since you’d felt like a person, let alone a flesh and blood woman, that you were beginning to feel dazed by the lavish treatment you were receiving.

 

Suddenly Steve’s raised voice cut through your thoughts, “She’s been abused, tortured and held prisoner by HYDRA, the enemies of the organization that you and your country have shown allegiance too.” There was a subsequent moment of silence so deafeningly quiet that you could hear your own heartbeat pounding thunderously in your ears, then Steve’s voice again, “If nothing else, help her because she has nowhere else to go.”

 

As the truth of the Captain’s words rang in your fractured mind, echoing unpleasantly amid the painful memories of the past, you decided it was high time you showed your gratitude to your gracious host and put a word into the increasingly heated conversation that these men were having. Steve had described T’Challa as a stalwart man; classic and composed with just a hint of mystery. When you swung open the door of the bathroom and stepped out into a pristine, light filled living room that held two slightly irate superhero’s, you had to say that you agreed with Roger’s.

 

T’Challa was a tall man, his dark gaze fierce and his large body finely muscled. His alluring ebony skin gleamed handsomely in the midday light. He wore a well-fitting charcoal suit that was unmistakably expensive and had an air of authority about him that had you suddenly standing up a bit straighter. When you entered the room both of the men turned to face you and you fought the strong urge to fidget.

 

“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,” You began, your voice husky from misuse, its low rasp almost unfamiliar to you, “I just thought that I should meet the man who was so generous as to let me use his commodities, and welcome me into his beautiful home.” As you spoke you reached out a surprisingly steady hand for the Wakandan King to shake, wondering the whole time if your presumption was too bold.

 

T’Challa’s mouth upturned in the barest hint of a smile at your words before he strode forward and clasped your small hand in his large one, his calloused fingers rasping against yours. You felt a small measure of relief as he spoke, his deep, slightly accented voice ringing in the spacious room, “You are not interrupting at all, my dear,” He kept ahold of your hand, shifting it in his grasp so that your palm lay face down against his upturned hand, his grip encompassing, demanding, “Unfortunately I have other urgent matters of state to attend to, but when I return I very much look forward to getting to know you better. In the meantime, please make yourself at home here. I understand that you and Mr. Roger’s have your own pressing matters to engage in.”

 

His elegant, diplomatic words and the implications that they carried stunned you so intensely that it was a few long moments before you found your voice to respond. Your courteous reply was given just in time to bid him goodbye as he strode towards the door on the far wall. Before he left he drew in close to Steve, your enhanced hearing the only thing making you privy to their hushed exchange.

 

“My hospitality is generous, Captain,” T’Challa said, his low voice now filled with all the Kingly authority befitting a man of his station, “But even it has limits. Take that to heart.”

 

Steve’s curt nod was his only answer, and with that mysterious conversation and an elegant cant of his head in your direction, the Wakandan leader left, leaving you alone with Steve. The Captain took a deep, seemingly steadying breath before he turned to you, his features softened by concern.

 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, his tone worried and his deep blue eyes anxious as he smoothly steered the conversation away from the puzzling exchange that had just occurred.

 

“Better,” You confessed, rolling the tightly wound muscles of your arms and back as you spoke, “But I came here for a reason,” You said, trailing off as that presence,  _his_ presence, throbbed more insistently  in your mind, “And I’d very much like to see it through, if that’s alright with you.”

 

The smile that Steve gave you in response to your words was equal parts understanding and apprehensive, “Bucky, he’s-” Steve stopped, glancing down to where his booted feet scuffed at the carpeted ground before continuing, “He’s different from when either of us knew him; he’s not totally the guy from Brooklyn that I knew, and not totally the soldier that you did. You have to be prepared for the scenario where he might doesn’t meet your expectations.”

 

At that you smiled warmly and moved closer, crossing behind the elegant white couch that dominated the far wall of the room to face Steve, “I know that, I do, I just wanna see him. Once, just once,” You said, emotion making your voice thick, causing tears to well in the corners of your eyes, “He might not even remember me, but I need to know, Steve. I need to be sure that he’s safe.”

 

He surveyed you for a few lingering moments before he sighed deeply and nodded, turning towards a huge set of double doors. You followed eagerly, your heart pounding madly in anticipation. Finally you were about to see him, to speak with him, the man who’d saved you from madness, who’d comforted you when you’d been convinced that no one else could. Although Steve had said not to have expectations you couldn’t stem the wild flow of hope that promised that maybe, just maybe you could give him some measure of the comfort that he’d given you. That maybe, even though you were battered and broken, abused and worn, you could put your fractured pieces together just enough to find peace. After all, wasn’t that the very thing you were searching for? The very thing you’d give your last breath to possess?

 

And with your soldier, maybe, just maybe, you could have it.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky had just finished reliving the Kennedy assassination for the millionth time when he realized that he was waking up. It took him longer than usual to recognize his ascent to wakefulness because this time when the memory had replayed he’d noticed the expression on Jackie Kennedy’s face as she’d watched her husband’s dark blood stain the pristine upholstery next to her. For some reason he’d never noticed the way her eyes had become inundated with sorrow, understanding and horror seeping into her gaze, a filmy darkness that covered her shocked countenance, spreading like ebony ink that had been spilled over snowy white paper. He didn’t think it was a sight he’d soon forget.

 

The difference between this time and every other time he’d woken from cryo-sleep was that now, as the cobwebs slowly began to recede from his mind and the world began to crystallize, he wasn’t afraid of what he’d find when he opened his eyes. He welcomed it; he didn’t fight the slight nausea, the momentary weightlessness, the dull pain beginning to throb in his temples. He accepted it, even embraced it, until it was just another part of him, another scar decorating his battle worn body.

 

He heard voices ringing through the chamber he was in and he latched onto the sound. He recognized the nearest deep, thrumming masculine tone and the heavy, thudding footsteps that followed it. Steve. His best friend’s feet moved nearer to him then strode away, nothing alarming. Shapes began to shift in front of his eyes and the light filtering into the cryo-chamber began to flicker, like he was watching an old black and white film. His lips almost quirked at that. And then he heard a melodic, lilting voice that sounded familiar, painfully so. His heart ached in his chest at that smooth, caramel timbre.  Flitting, dainty footsteps approached him. They didn’t move away. The owner of the voice spoke again; the sound was muffled, as if it was travelling through water, though the words were steady and rhythmic. The tone was apprehensive, nervous almost. His fingers twitched, spreading outwards, as though he wanted to reach towards that voice.

 

Why did he see haunting, glimmering, tear filled eyes locked to his and slim, dainty fingers clutching desperately at grimy prison bars when he heard that ethereal female inflection? Why did his chest ache and his muscles tense, as though he wanted to protect, to guard that owner of that delicate voice? A sharp shard of confusion tinged with a wild, fiery want cut him to the very bone.

 

Then air, rushing around him, playing at his icy skin, and pressure, intense and almost unbearable for just a moment before it receded. Fragmented sensations that told him he was about to re-join the world. His internal clock said that he hadn’t been under for too long, though he’d vastly underestimated the duration of his slumber before.

 

When he opened his eyes the light that seeped through the frosted glass before him was blinding and he screwed his sensitive eyes shut in response. He heard the door of the chamber whir open and then that warm, feminine voice was murmuring softly to him again. The sound was close, mere inches away, a foot perhaps. What woman would possibly want to be in his presence, let alone get so close to him? For one horrible, heart wrenching moment he wondered if he was hallucinating, if that too familiar voice was even real, if his battered mind had finally broken, and a tendril of pure icy fear raced down his spine, but then he felt a small hand press gently into his bicep. The breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding as his body responded; he _recognized_ that touch. It’d been there to steady him nearly every time he’d been woken from cryo-sleep while he’d been HYDRA’s prisoner. But there was no way that you were actually here, it was impossible. Then he made out the words that were being said to him.

 

“It’s alright, the pain is over,” Your voice was barely above a murmur, and he was too shocked, too incredulous to discern whether you were speaking Russian or English, but he felt the impact of your words down to the core of his very soul, “You’re safe now, my soldier.”

 

 _Impossible,_ this was impossible. But still your soft palm was skimming feather light down the exposed skin of his right arm, your fingers sliding over the curves of his wrist before moving back up again, comforting. Curiosity nipping at him, eagerness winning out over his incredulity, he snapped open his eyes and drew in a shocked breath at what he saw. Sure enough there you were, looking more beautiful than he’d ever seen you. Your stunning face was upturned to him, your full lips were curved in a gentle smile and your luminous eyes were bright beneath the weighty sweep of your dusky lashes. You looked like a goddamn angel standing before him and here he was, just woken up from hell.

 

“You,” He breathed, his voice breaking low, sounding husky from lack of use, heat flooding his cheeks at the delighted giggle that emerged from your smiling lips in response to his exclamation, his blush deepening as he realized, with a healthy dose of embarrassment, that he’d never learned your name, “How?” He asked, voice thrumming with emotion, “ _How?”_

 

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, he was too amazed to focus on anything else. He watched your expression raptly, noting how your fingers clutched him tighter at his inquiry, as if in fear, “After the incident I was put into a high security prison,” His brow  furrowed at that; what incident were you talking about, it couldn’t be the incident that had almost led to his escape, could it? You’d been instrumental in that? “For years I wasted away in a new, smaller cell. Every time the guards came I thought for sure they were going to kill me but they just asked questions, showed me pictures and news reports to get my reaction. It was as if they were testing me. Then recently I found out that HYDRA was transferring me to a new facility, there were whispers about downgraded budgets and moved timelines, but in the days before the actual transfer the guards were talking a lot, more than usual. They were saying things about you, your last known whereabouts and the events of the past few months. I couldn’t believe that you were still alive but I knew I had to find you. While they were moving me I saw a window for escape and I took it. I think the guards were surprised by my strength. All that testing HYDRA did on me wasn’t fruitless. I ran until I collapsed, and somehow I ran to you.”

 

It was curious that you’d come straight to him, had been able to find him when no others had, that couldn’t be a coincidence. In the past hadn’t he himself felt your presence so keenly that it’d shocked him down to his very bones? He thought he’d been able to sense your every emotion; every time you were near it was as if his whole body knew it and responded in kind. Even now he felt a thrumming in the center of his being, a warm contentedness that had been missing from his life for as long as he could remember.

 

“You could feel me…” He murmured, the words not so much a question as a statement, but you nodded in agreement nonetheless.

 

“I don’t know how, but I could,” Your beautiful eyes shimmered with unshed tears and Bucky felt as though a hand was squeezing his chest; you shouldn’t cry, not when it could be prevented, “I still can.”

 

Unable to stop himself, unthinking, he raised his left palm to trace the gentle slope of your cheek, to  catch any tears that fell, before he remembered that there wasn’t anything there to use. And yet, a glinting metal hand came into his line of vision as soon as he’d thought about using the appendage. The new arm felt good, less weighty than the one HYDRA had outfitted him with. When the glimmering metal responded obediently to his every whim, reacting to his thoughts before they’d even fully formed, Bucky couldn’t help the smile the curved his lips. He reached out and gently, so gently, and caught a strand of your long hair between his metal fingers, watching it shine in the palm of his new hand. Amazing. This had to be T’Challa’s doing. Bucky looked to Steve then, caught his eye, and smiled wide.

 

“This is nice,” Bucky said, gesturing to the new arm. Steve’s answering grin made Bucky smile wider, happiness flooding through him. Then suddenly, amazingly, Bucky didn’t feel as much like a fugitive or a monster on the run. He wasn’t a murderer, a weapon forged in fire and blood. He was a man talking to a beautiful woman, a woman he found he ached to learn about, to know, feeling real happiness in the company of his best friend in the whole world. And he was finding that this newfound joy suited him well.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As Steve watched Bucky’s overjoyed, incredulous expression, his friend’s bright grin growing wider by the second, Steve really couldn’t help but feel intensely grateful. He was grateful that his best friend, whose past was dark and painful, was smiling, actually smiling, and the expression didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. He was grateful that him and Buck were safe, thanks to T’Challa , who was proving to be a powerful and generous ally. And he was grateful for you; that somehow a tiny, gentle woman with haunted eyes and a healers touch had his best friend _smiling_ like he was the happiest man alive. And the way Bucky was looking at you…

 

Geez, how Buck was looking at you; it was like a starving man seeing a feast spread before him; it was like an inmate watching the sunrise for the first time in years. Steve supposed that maybe that was what you were to him, a sunrise, a place of light and comfort. After all, you’d been with Bucky in that Siberian prison, you’d suffered through that dark time with him. You’d been there when he’d had no one, and what Bucky needed right now, more than anything, was someone with shared experience who could help him heal. And judging by the way you were looking back up at him, your wide smile impossibly warm and your gentle touch seeming to soothe the shaking man beneath your palms, it would appear that you saw Buck in a similar way, in a way that said you just wanted to help, and maybe receive help in return. Still there were shadows lurking in the corners of your luminous eyes; demons that, Steve knew, would come out to haunt you in those quiet moments that you had to yourself. Not that he was surprised, or judged for that matter; who knows what had happened in those dark, damp walls in Siberia. Steve didn’t even want to imagine.

 

What Steve did want though, more than anything, was for his friend to heal, to begin to recover from the traumas of the past. Before you’d come along Steve had felt a crushing  sense of hopelessness on that front; how could he help Bucky when he had no idea the extent of what he’d gone through, had no idea how to help him? Not even a few months ago Bucky had refused to admit that he remembered Steve, could anyone really blame him for worrying? But now, as Bucky gazed down at you, his gaze adoring and his touch tender, his large palm curled around your slender fingers as he explored his new appendage, Steve realized two things.

 

The first was that impossibly, blessedly, there was _hope_ now. A small, soaring tendril of fragile, breakable hope that whispered promises of safety, of stability, to the broken, battered people in this room. Steve latched onto that hope with everything in him, because right now, facing a tumultuous future filled with legal and literal battles, they all needed a piece of it to hold close to their chests.

 

And the second was that there was a slight, tiny, miniscule possibility that Steve was jealous. He wasn’t really sure what had triggered it or what specifically it was about, and he knew it was irrational, he really did, but he couldn’t stop the slip of envy that slid down his spine. He wanted his friend to have allies, people who trusted him, who could reach out to comfort where he’d already suffered so much, but it had never really occurred to Steve that the person who couldn’t help Buck, that couldn’t give him what he needed, would be Steve himself. But while that fact stung more than a little, Steve could accept it. He could also accept that while he couldn’t, maybe he couldn’t just for right now. There was hope in the air, and in that hope Steve decided to revel. After all, Steve had brought Buck back from the edge when he’d been teetering on oblivion, and that had to count for something.

 

When Bucky met Steve’s gaze again and flashed him a grin, the kind of smile the old Buck would’ve given Steve after a particularly bawdy joke at a bully’s expense, Steve corrected himself; it counted for everything.

 

* * *

 

 

After he’d finally learned your name, doctors had performed few sets of tests on his new arm, which was proving to work perfectly, and a short battery of exams to see how he was doing post-cryo, Bucky was feeling surprisingly good. Somewhere in the frenzy of nurses and doctors and the ‘how does that feel’ type-questions Steve had slipped away, but Bucky let him. He got the sense that Steve needed some time to process all that had happened in the past day, and Bucky couldn’t blame him. It sure as shit had his head spinning, but Bucky reveled in it nonetheless.

 

You’d stayed by his side the whole time, never straying far and seemingly quite unable to keep your hands off of him for long. Honestly though, he wasn’t complaining. It was so damn nice to have a familiar face around, along with your distinctly feminine presence, and he found your simple touches comforting beyond description. Somehow your presence made him feel centered, made the memories flow more easily. He was able to recall more of his time with HYRDA, though he fervently pushed those memories away for brighter recollections of his family and his childhood in Brooklyn. He wasn’t sure how you were doing it, but you were healing him.

 

His body still ached, but even that he was glad for; it reminded him that he was here, that he was alive. And each twinge or ache that burned through his muscles was an exclamation that his body was finally his again. His contentment had continued undisturbed, and the nurses had just cleared him to leave, when a disturbing stray thought flitted through his mind.

 

“Your tracker,” Bucky breathed, studying your sunlit face carefully, “You HYRDA tracker; is it still functional?” Your face blanched slightly at that, as if you were remembering something particularly painful, and your gaze dropped to your lap.

 

“I tried to dig it out when I escaped three days ago,” you explained as you traced a thin scar on the inside of your thigh, “And I think I was successful, but there could still be remnants left.”

 

Bucky swallowed heavily at that; not only did the scar look weeks old instead of mere days, a testament to your increased healing ability, but it’s placing was disturbing. It had been high up on your slender appendage, sitting inside the cradle of the thigh. That was an intimate place, a sensitive place. If HYDRA had wanted to humiliate you with this, he was sure that they’d succeeded.

 

“I can check, if you’d like,” He said, making his voice softer, imploring, “Just to be sure.” You studied him for a long moment before you sucked in a steeling breath and nodded. He instructed you to lay back on the exam table as he gathered supplies together; a small scalpel and a gauze pad among his tools.

 

“I’m sorry but this will hurt,” He said when he sensed you were ready, his eyes meeting yours as he spoke. He was trying very hard not to think too much about what the sight of you spread before him did to his body, but he was finding he was failing miserably. He couldn’t quite keep his gaze from the lines of your spread thighs, or his fingers from stroking your impossibly smooth skin.

 

“It’s alright, I’m used to the pain,” You said, your normally pleasant voice thrumming with malice, with darkness. In response Bucky laid his large palm over yours, curling his fingers around your slim digits, trying to show you somehow that you weren’t alone. That simple touch sent electricity thrumming up his skin, skittering over his frazzled nerves. The gesture seemed to succeed in soothing you, and once your breaths were deep and even, Bucky reluctantly began to cut.

 

He tried to make his incisions as small and surgical as possible, but unfortunately, causing you pain in this was unavoidable. To your credit you stayed very still, which both decreased your pain and made his gruesome work easier, but he saw the tension set in your jaw, the strain in your muscles. It was a good thing he’d checked though, because soon Bucky began to pull out finite shard of some material; possibly vibranium or some other rare metal. When the fingers of his metal hand touched it a strange thrum seemed to travel up his arm, curious, but vibranium had strange properties. After twenty minutes of thorough work, Bucky was glad to tell you he had finished. As you’d released a few shaky breaths and stretched your arms above your head, Bucky had begun to attend to your wound, pressing clean gauze into it. To his amazement, your wound seemed to already be healing, the bleeding stopping and the skin beginning to knit again.

 

“How did HYDRA not notice your abilities?” He asked, incredulous as he bent his head to study your thigh more closely, “That’s amazing…”

 

“I guess they were too busy with world domination to give a damn about me,” You said, making your tone light, “Besides, the beatings had stopped once I was moved from Siberia. That was when my body really began to change because of the serums.”

 

Bucky’s cheeks heated and shame filled him at that; he remembered your beatings all too clearly, he’d been the one forced to dole them out to you. After every injection of serum they’d made you fight the soldiers, often until you were so bloodied and bruised that you could barely stand. Bucky had pulled his punches, because, even though his mind was clouded and filled with lies, it still went against everything in him to harm a woman.

 

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Bucky rasped, looking up at you, meeting your eyes, needing you to see the sincerity in his gaze, “I’m so sorry, I never wanted to…” He trailed off when a thick lump formed in his throat, preventing him from continuing. He nearly trembled when he felt your small, tender hands smooth down his temples and trace the curve of his stubble covered cheekbones. Your light touches sent vibrant tingles skittering in their wake and Bucky leaned into your hands, wanting them on him.

 

“It’s alright,” You breathed, emotion heavily laden in your voice, “I know you didn’t, it’s alright. HYDRA is the evil force here, not you.”

 

And still Bucky bowed his head in shame, unable to accept your statements no matter how much he wanted too. Your fingers slipped to his nape and cupped his jaw, making him raise his gaze. Suddenly, as he gazed into your molten eyes, the intimacy of being seated between your spread legs struck him full force, making his pulse race and his blood boil. The heat of your parted lips so damned close to his teased him mercilessly and his hands clutched tighter at the smooth skin of your thighs. It really wouldn’t take much to close the distance between your lips, to capture your mouth with his. You both deserved to indulge in wicked, wanton pleasure after all the pain you’d suffered; could you revel in it with each other, taking and giving, demanding and acquiescing? Would you sigh into his mouth and twine your fingers in his hair? If you did, he’d gently lap at your bottom lip while he slipped his hands up the length of your silken thighs ….

 

Suddenly he started and took his hands from your warm skin as if he’d been burned, not wanting to make you uncomfortable even as a searing shot of lust burned starkly through his veins. He was shocked by the power of the arousal that had roared to life inside him just then; how could he want you this much- even after everything he’d been through? Maybe because of everything he’d been through. Even so, he realized it felt….good.

 

It felt good to want, good to lust, so he reveled in that too. Your throaty chuckles brought his thoughts back to here, to this sun filled room and the beauty at his side. He was glad that you were laughing, that your reaction to him was positive, so he smiled too.

 

“Sorry,” He murmured, a sheepish grin curving his lips as he brought a hand behind his neck, “I’m just nervous. It’s been awhile since I’ve been around a beautiful woman. Especially a woman as stunning as you…” He trailed off pitifully, his cheeks heating in embarrassment. Before HYDRA he’d always been smooth with the ladies; he’d loved women and women had loved him back. But here, with you, this was different. It felt familiar to speak with you, to be with you, and yet achingly new to touch you, to want to kiss you. “Why do I feel so comfortable with you?” He asked, curiosity burning through him as he leaned forward, “Is this HYDRA’s doing? How did you find me?”

 

“Come on,” You prodded, avoiding his inquiries, a minx-like grin curving your lips as you slipped off the table and led him to a small balcony overlooking the dense forest, “How about we go for a run.” You called over your shoulder as you leaned over the railing, surveying the steep drop to the ground below. You weren’t considering jumping that, were you?

 

“Live a little,” You said, as if you sensed his hesitancy. The crooked grin you flashed him as you sidled close made his heart twist wildly in his chest, an unfamiliar heat firing through his veins, “I know you’re aching to stretch those sore muscles of yours,” He was, Jesus, he was, how had you known that, “Tell you what, let’s go for a run. If you can catch me, I’ll try to answer your questions the best I can. I might even ask you some of my own.”

 

It was such a simple proposal but it filled him with curiosity, with intrigue, nonetheless. When you waggled your eyebrows at him he couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed on his lips. You waited only a heartbeat before you flashed him a dazzling grin and leapt off the edge of the balcony, landing gracefully a few seconds later in a low crouch. You peeked back up at Bucky, and for just an instant, as  your long hair tumbled over the curve of your shoulder, and unmistakable mirth danced in the corners of your eyes, he was sure his heart had stopped dead in his chest.

 

And then you took off like a rocket, your speed dizzyingly fast and your weighty steps sure. Should he follow you? Was it wise to run off into the Wakandan jungle when he no idea where you were leading him? As he watched your admittedly luscious ass make it’s way into the dense tree line, feeling more and more like his old self, his lips curved into a smirk before he asked himself, who gave a damn?

**Author's Note:**

> I've been interested in writing a Bucky x reader/Winter Soldier x reader fic for awhile and as I've just recently seen Civil War I have sooo many new ideas for a fic! Please let me know if you liked this chapter, if you would like to see more, any ideas or imagines you might have, etc. Thank you for reading!!
> 
> Mood Board for this chapter, if you're interested: http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/144083007184/reader-is-a-recently-escaped-hydra-prisoner-who-is


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